


If Dreams Must Fall

by genetic_design



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, M/M, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-03-17 23:16:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3547400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genetic_design/pseuds/genetic_design
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam gets locked inside a dream world when the boys mistake a goddess for a witch during a hunt, and only the power of an Archangel can pull him out. The loss of a perfect life sends him spiraling downward, though, and Gabriel has no idea how to save Sam from himself.</p><p>Hiatus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Dreams Must Fall

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a dream world type of story that had nothing to do with a djinn. This is what happened.
> 
> The rating will go up within the next few chapters, characters and tags will be added as the story progresses, etc, etc.
> 
>  **Please note** that this fic will, at times, deal with _dark and potentially triggering themes_ , some graphic and some not. Regardless of the level of intensity/description, I will list specific warnings as they apply for each individual chapter.
> 
> Also note that while I do have Destiel listed as a pairing, it is a _side_ pairing to Sam/Gabriel. It comes much, much later in the story, and is not focused on nearly as much.

"Are you sure this is the right place, Cas?”

“For the last time, Dean, _yes_ , I am sure.” Castiel turned to the hunter with an exasperated expression on his face, which Dean responded to with a roll of his eyes.

Sam bit back a frustrated comment and got out of the car when the angel began to insist — for what felt like the hundredth damn time — that his sources were extremely reliable and Dean cut him off with a scathing remark. They had been at each other’s throats for days now, and Sam was heartily sick of their bickering. There were only so many times he could escape the awkward tension by using the excuse of wanting a soda to get out of the motel room, after all. He had no idea what started the ongoing fight this time — he didn't want to know, really — but last week he woke to shouting, which had led to Dean bitching about everything down to Cas's ever-eternal trench coat, and it just would not stop.

Sighing, Sam leaned on the passenger side door and shut his eyes against the brightness of the Arizona summer evening. Sunset was less than a half hour away but the day had been scorching, and every breath he took was hot, dry, and grating in his throat. Warmth radiating from the car's sun-baked metal seeped through his shirt. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck. A whole minute dragged by, and he mourned for the A/C still blasting away inside the Impala.

God, this altercation needed to hit a lull soon, because a heat stroke seemed pretty high up there on the list of the most pitiful ways for a hunter to go out. In the end, Sam's demise wouldn't be some unfortunate circumstance of a hunt gone tragically wrong, or even something as quick and mundane as a horrific car crash. No, he was just going to sweat to death in the middle of the damn desert. Sounded about right.

Resigned to his fate, he swallowed a cheer when his brother finally exited the car and propped the trunk open. Maybe now they could scope the area out and get back to the motel before he finished melting.

"Quiet, suburban neighbourhoods, man," Dean grumbled at the angel hovering by his side. "That's where this thing's been popping up for the last few months. And you think it's suddenly deviated from that pattern to camp out in some abandoned house in the Mojave?"

"As I said, I —"

“What do you think, Sammy?” Dean interjected. Sam read the question for the ' _you know I'm right, don't you_?' that it clearly was.

Damn it. The absolute last thing he wanted was to get dragged into the middle of such a ridiculous situation. No matter whose side he defended, he knew he was going to get crap for it, in either the form of ill-concealed hurt from Castiel or the cold shoulder from Dean. Casting a desperate glance around, his eyes fell on the open trunk, and he all but dove inside it to begin rummaging through the stash of weaponry. Maybe if he kept his mouth shut long enough, Dean would give up and resume bitching at Cas. Awkward silence loomed on and on and on, until the oldest Winchester pointedly cleared his throat.

“Look," Sam began, intently gazing at a box of shotgun shells, "if Cas got solid information, we should at least check it out." Maybe he couldn't see the withering glare Dean shot him, but he could definitely feel it boring a hole into the side of his skull. Certain he was going to pay for the betrayal later, he made a mental note to inspect his shampoo bottle before he showered later that night.

Attempting to ignore the discussion — argument — Dean and Castiel started about the best point of entry, Sam turned to examine the building beside him. Before rust eroded the wrought iron shutters, when the withered ivy curling around the slender pillars grew lush and green, the two-story home would have been a sight to behold. Now, yellowed paint curled away from the crumbling, weather-stained walls in tattered strips. Shingles long since missing, the roof sat in shambles, bowing down the middle; waiting for that single, solid gust of wind to send it crashing to the ground. Jagged pieces of glass coated with grime jutted out from the windowsills, framing the openings like razor sharp jaws around gaping mouths.

The place filled him with a distinct sense of unease, and he fought the inexplicable urge to demand they all jump back into the car and put as much distance between them and the old house as possible. No way in hell was he going to admit to that wariness out loud. Not after managing to land himself such a nice little spot Dean's shit list.

Besides, it was the only somewhat promising lead they had for the case. Seven victims spanning eleven weeks and five separate states, and they had nothing to show for a single bit of it. Nothing but a string of apparent suicides, linked only by a distinctive set of partially healed claw marks, dug into the skin above their hearts. A blood curse, most likely. They never found so much as a single hex bag at any of the homes, but Bobby believed the witch came back to collect them after the victims killed themselves, in order to throw potential hunters off her trail.

Countless interviews and the barest scraps of information had sent them chasing dead end after even deader end, halfway across the freaking country — twice. And then there was that ridiculous snag they hit back in Chicago, where one nosy cop had almost succeeded in busting their cover. Without Bobby's swift intervention via phone call, they'd probably still be sitting in a jail cell.

All in all, it was one of the more frustrating hunts to come their way, and as hopeless as this lead might turn out, desperation forced them to follow it through. Anything at this point was better than nothing.

The Impala’s trunk slammed shut. Dean slung his gear over his shoulder as he stalked up to the derelict house. “It’s just a witch, Cas,” he said through clenched teeth. “If it’s even here. We go in through the damn front door.”

With an apologetic shrug at the hurt and slightly bemused look on Castiel's face, Sam followed his brother through the doorway.

Although the sinking sun still burned fierce and hot, it did little to penetrate the darkness that shrouded the entryway. Shadows hung thick and heavy, like tangible veils of smoke- and ash-coloured cloth. The unnaturalness of it set Sam on edge. Dean's flashlight barely cut through the shadows as the beam swept around the living room. The light settled on a chair covered with a mothball ridden sheet before jumping to a glass cabinet turned opaque by cobwebs. Several large paintings adorned the walls, various depictions of mountain scenery and forests. An upright piano sat underneath one of the portraits, its keys cracked and coloured by age, its tarnished pedals gleaming dully.

As if disappointed by the lack of some nameless monster leaping out at him from behind the furniture, Dean sighed, a sharp, irritated noise. Moments later he muttered under his breath, then disappeared into a hallway on the other side of the room. A door opened with a groaning creak, boots thudded against a wooden floor, and then silence filled the air. The disquiet Sam had been experiencing since first setting eyes on the deteriorated house swelled at the sudden emptiness in the living room, creeping up to something bordering on anxiety. It burrowed deep inside his gut, a sinking sensation that taking a long, slow breath did nothing to quell.

 _Nut up_ , a voice in Sam's head demanded. It sounded an awful lot like Dean.

Gritting his teeth, Sam clicked on his own flashlight. He left searching the ground level to his brother and ventured towards the staircase, hesitation lending caution to his steps. Worn, scratched floorboards groaned under his weight as he went up the stairs. It was dark on the second floor as well, but the shadows here were less cloying, more easily penetrated by the flashlight. The door to the first bedroom on his left was already open, so Sam slipped inside it, his free hand hovering over the hilt of the knife sheathed on the side of his belt.

Light from the setting sun provided scant illumination through the cracked, broken windows. A cursory inspection found the room barren except for a small desk wedged into the back corner. On top of the stained wood was a haphazard stack of books, and pieces of yellowed paper were scattered around them. A thick layer of dust caked everything. Despite the discomfort still prickling through Sam's veins, the pile of books in an otherwise empty bedroom piqued his curiosity. Cradling the flashlight in the crook of his arm, the hunter picked up the topmost volume and scrubbed a sleeve across it to clear the dirty film from the cover.

A gravelly question of " _1984_?" startled him into dropping the book. It hit the desk with a heavy thump, stirring a cloud of dust into the air. The odd, half-strangled gasp he made sent the dirt straight down his throat. Coughing, eyes watering, Sam turned to glower at the unexpected presence behind him.

"Damn it," he wheezed, waving the dust away from his face. "Warn a guy, would ya?" He wondered when the hell his nerves had managed to devolve to such pathetic levels.

"My apologies," Castiel said. The angel eyed the ancient desk, still wearing that same pinched expression from earlier, but his features went completely blank as footsteps stomped into the room.

"Downstairs is clear, like I thought it'd be," Dean grumbled, oblivious to or simply ignoring the way Castiel's shoulders went rigid at his tone. "Find anything?"

Sam sighed. "Just some old books." A truthful statement, if he excluded the obnoxious little voice demanding ' _get the hell away from here_ ' in the back of his head.

"What kind of books?" Dean asked, clearly hoping for something related to the occult. An ancient tome in Latin, maybe, or a how-to guide on demon summoning. Anything that meant the trip wasn't a total waste.

"Nothing weird," Sam said, gesturing at the desk. "Orwell and Vonnegut, mostly."

Dean grunted. He sighed, then grimaced and opened his mouth, no doubt preparing to say something incredibly insulting. Whatever it was, Sam never found out, because Castiel held up a hand and fell as still as a statue.

“Be quiet,” he ordered, tone even lower than usual in warning. Both hunters heeded the command without question. After a moment of dead silence, the look on the angel's face went from searching to mildly alarmed.

“Guys, I think we need to —"

“Leave?” a feminine voice finished from behind them.

Dean jerked his gun up with a startled "Son of a bitch!" and Sam’s heart thumped painfully against his chest as he whirled around to face a young woman standing in the doorway. Tall and delicate, her features made him think of a porcelain doll crafted to perfection; hair so blond it gleamed silver, long lashes as dark as night that framed wide eyes, skin the colour of ivory. A smile curved her pale pink lips as she padded closer to them, her simple white dress rippling with each silent step.

A sudden wave of wrongness crawled over Sam's skin when he noticed that her bare feet left no trace of a mark in the dirt on the floor.

“So soon after you’ve just arrived?” she asked.

Castiel, looking infinitely more worried by the second, grabbed the brothers by their shoulders as the woman drew nearer. Sam expected to blink and be back in the motel room. When he opened his eyes, he saw the woman’s violet-grey stare instead of Formica counters and tacky wallpaper.

“Sorry,” she said lightly, “no angel air transport here, I’m afraid. I think you should stay for a little while, don’t you?” Castiel tensed when the woman tilted her head at Dean, which caused Sam's earlier distress to skyrocket. A freaking angel of the Lord being wary of a simple, lingering glance couldn't mean anything good. "Proper introductions are in order, yes?"

The elder Winchester responded by training his gun at the centre of her forehead. "How's that for an introduction?"

"Such hostility," the woman said, frowning in obvious disapproval when Dean tightened his grip on the semi-automatic. “Not to worry, though. I already know who you are." She paused a couple of feet away, peering at them with those odd coloured eyes.

The moment she turned to fully face his brother, Sam seized the opportunity to slip around behind her, weapon in hand. He ignored the questioning glance Castiel cut him, reasoning to himself that a better vantage point was always a good thing during a hunt.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Sure you do.”

“Yes, Dean Winchester, I do. In fact, I know more about you, about all of you, than you could ever know yourselves.”

"I'd be flattered," Dean said, voice full of his patented condescending charm, "but lots of things know our names. Gonna have to do better than that."

Her lips quirked in amusement. "Indeed."

Dean caught his brother's eye and nodded slightly as Sam moved towards the woman. "So," he said, shifting his weight to keep her attention on him. "You know mine, but I don't know yours."

“I have dozens, hundreds of names. These days I go by Aesis.”

Castiel sucked in a sharp breath at the declaration. The barest glint of metal protruded from the edge of the angel’s sleeve.

“Oh!” Aesis exclaimed. She took a step closer, asking, “Have you heard of me?”

“Yes,” Castiel responded simply. Hand still on Dean’s shoulder, he pulled the hunter back until they stood side by side. “Be very careful, Dean. She is not a witch, but a creature as old as time itself. Vicious, vengeful, and bloodthirsty. Aesis is a... soul collector, if you will. An extremely ancient and powerful goddess.”

Sam swore internally and froze in place. Guns — or Ruby's knife, for that matter — would be worthless if Cas was right. Best case scenario, a bullet wound wouldn't affect Aesis at all. Worst case, it might piss her off, and then they'd have an angry goddess on their hands. One who could probably squash them all like insignificant bugs. He slowly started to back up.

Dean must have reached the same conclusion, because he scowled and let the gun drop to his side.

“My, you have heard of me, angel. What a gracious description.” Aesis let out a little hum of breath. “I have been known as many, many things. I suppose a goddess is a fairly apt title."

Suddenly, she lifted a hand, fingers splayed and palm forward, and Sam’s body jerked to a halt from where he was attempting to creep away from her. The goddess twisted her wrist. An unseen force slammed into him, propelling him backwards until he hit the wall behind him with a grunt of expelled air, and he slumped to the floor. He couldn't move an inch, couldn't even twitch a finger. Ruby's knife lay several feet away, for all the good it would have done him anyway.

Castiel and Dean had begun to move towards him, but their movements abruptly halted when the woman gestured again. The gun Dean had been holding clattered to the ground.

"He's fine," Aesis said. "For now. You know, you boys caught my attention with all that Apocalypse business. I have been watching you all very closely. I was looking forward to that playground of misery. Consider this an alternative source of entertainment.”

Dean’s mouth twisted. “This is fun, murdering innocent people, forcing them to kill themselves?”

“Oh, Dean. I haven’t killed anyone recently. They did it to themselves. Besides, I didn’t make any of those poor creatures do anything they did not want to do. I helped them.”

“Helped them? You hunted them down like animals and the —"

“No," Aesis interrupted. "I found them; the lonely people, the ones who had nothing in this world, and I offered them everything. An entire lifetime of power, love, anything they have ever desired, all wrapped up in a single week. And when they woke, so full of despair they reeked of it, they came to me. When they realised it was all a dream, they found a way to stop that pain, and then they belonged to me. They became a part of me, to live on forever. Isn’t that one of the things humanity is always searching for? They crave immortality like a drug."

Aesis slid closer to the hunter. A sick feeling twisted its way through Sam's stomach. He struggled to get to Dean, to stand, anything, but the invisible bindings that trapped him against the wall held fast.

"I can tell you don’t quite believe me. Perhaps you require a firsthand experience?” The woman's smile turned wicked. “You may be a righteous man in the eyes of God and your angel here, but I see the darkness in your soul, Dean Winchester. Your deepest desires all made manifest before my eyes. Your pain, your love, your lust. I can show you everything you have ever wanted."

"Lady, there is no way in hell I’m letting you show me a damn thing.”

“No? My, aren’t you a stubborn one.” The goddess traced a fingertip down Dean’s cheek, the tapered point of her nail leaving behind a bright red line. “The strong ones are so much more fun to break.”

Castiel made a low strangled noise in the back of this throat.

“Oh, but poor Castiel would not like that very much, would he? If I broke his favourite toy before he got the chance to play with it.” She focused on the dark-haired man, giving a soft giggle that raised the hair on the back of Sam's neck. “Tell me, angel, how important this human is to you. Would you attempt to protect him from me, knowing what I am?”

Aesis trailed her hand down the hunter’s throat and Castiel’s arm moved in a blur. Wrapping his fingers around her pale wrist, he yanked her hand away from Dean. Violet-grey eyes flashed black. Cas was flung back from them, slamming into the wall so hard plaster dust shook loose from the ceiling.

Dean's shout of protest cut off when Aesis waved at him, and his mouth shut with an audible snap. Sam watched on in horror as Dean's hands flew up to clutch at his throat, eyes wide, fingers clawing at nothing but his own skin.

“It’s rude to interrupt, Dean,” the goddess said. “Continue to do so and I will seal your lungs closed. Permanently.” She twitched her fingers and the oldest hunter's lips parted. Gasping, Dean glared as she turned back to Cas, although he said nothing, clearly taking the threat into consideration.

The woman walked over to the angel’s sprawled form, digging the heel of her foot against his ribs. Castiel's mouth tightened to a thin line, but he did not make a sound.

“And what of you, Castiel? Rebellious, fallen angel of the Lord, died and restored. A disobedient son, and so quick to betray those who love you. What is it that you desire? Power, yes? The strength to take down your enemies, to right your wrongs. I can give that to you.” Aesis sank down to her knees and brushed her mouth against his ear. “I can give you that and so much more,” she murmured. Her voice died to a whisper as she breathed, “I can give you _him_.”

Castiel’s eyes widened as he tilted his face to glance at Dean.

“Imagine what could be if he returned your affection. If he wasn’t terrified to look inside himself and see it. If you could truly know his touch. I see everything you want. All you have —"

“No!” Castiel whipped his head back to the goddess, a desperate, wild emotion etched across his features. “I cannot... I will not.”

“Not so easily persuaded, are you?” She rose to her feet, fluid and graceful, staring down at him with an expression close to pity. “Don’t worry; I won’t tell them. It will be our little secret, just how weak you really are.”

Sam’s breath caught in his throat when Aesis moved in his direction. As daunting as it had been to see her torment Cas and his brother, he knew enduring it himself would be immeasurably worse.

“And lastly we have dear little Sammy. Still living in big brother’s shadow. Never the strong one, always the one who breaks, always losing what he wants most. Should we talk about Jessica?” Fingertips grasped his cheek as his chest clenched at the name. “Or Ruby?” She tightened her grip and the tips of her nails pierced his skin; Sam could feel droplets of blood begin to well and drip down his face.

“Oh," Aesis gasped in mock surprise. “There is a third one here. One you refuse to admit even to yourself. Would you like me to show you, Sam? There are desires hidden from your own dreams. I know how you hurt, child. I know how very tired you are of trying. Trying, failing, and losing in the end.”

She tilted her head down to press her forehead against his. Warm breath ghosted across his lips as she started to whisper, “Sam. Let me show you what your life should be.” The fingers of her hand pressed against his chest, over his rapidly pounding heart, and his breath started to come in erratic little gasps.

The woman's words dredged up a veritable storm of painful things Sam thought he had managed to bury. Promises broken and trusts betrayed. Guilt over leaving Dean to deal with John's obsession alone, though never enough to make him come back. Constantly feeling torn between two lives — that of a hunter, the only one he had ever known, and the one he tried to create for himself when he fled to Stanford. A life that had always felt like a lie, despite how much he had yearned for it. Ghosts of memories that still haunted him in his sleep rushed over him. Wheat-coloured hair and a sunny smile, warped by fierce flames. Dark eyes and crimson lips, tainted by the bitter taste of addiction.

Blood. Death. Hell.

The ache inside him built higher and higher, until the terrifying urge to give in, the want for something better, consumed him. All he could see was a swirling mass of grey and violet. Mouth too dry to speak, Sam gave a jerking nod of acceptance. Someone shouted at him, Dean, maybe, but the roaring in his mind drowned out the pleading words. Aesis laughed in delight, no hint of surprise in her face as she raised her lips to his cheek.

She breathed a single word against the hunter’s skin, his name, before she plunged her fingers into his chest.

Time trickled down to a single moment of near-nothingness. In the abrupt silence, his pulse slowed enough that Sam could count the seconds between the beats. Heat settled inside his chest, where it started to slither and snake its way throughout his body. _Magic_ , he realised. Dark magic. Something inhuman, desperate, and hungry. The power began to course along his veins, flickers of white hot flames that left a tingling numbness in their wake.

Then there was a horrified, choking exhale, and Sam’s entire body convulsed in agony. Someone screamed. He thought it might have been him. Fire devoured him from the inside out, and the pain shot past unbearable, exploding into something unfathomable and blinding. He hurt too much to even continue to scream as it swept over him, arching his back away from the floor, ripping wordless gasps out of his throat.

He was dying, he had to be.

“Oh, sweetheart, no." The woman's voice rang through his head. “You’re not dying, not yet. This is only the beginning.”

An obscured figure flickered into existence beside Aesis, clutching a spark of brilliant metal in its hand. She did not react to the sudden appearance. The silhouette leaned in close to whisper something in his ear, but Sam was too far gone to make any sense of the words. Fingertips brushed his forehead. The touch muted the agony ravaging his body. A soothing balm on the frayed, tattered mess of his nerve endings.

From somewhere far away, the goddess spoke again. Her voice was muffled and warped.

Sam's field of vision narrowed dangerously, blackness encroaching, but he caught the slightest glimpse of honey-amber. A warm hand that did not belong to Aesis, nor to his brother or Castiel, cupped the side of his face. It squeezed gently as the last thread of Sam’s awareness mused that the dream must have started, was bleeding over into reality, and then all conscious thought became impossible. He lost his battle to stay awake, to remain aware.

Succumbing to the call of the abyss, Sam fell mercifully into nothingness.

\+ + +

Aesis ripped her hand from Sam’s chest with a sickening squelch. Rising, she walked over to Dean and Castiel with a throaty laugh, pressing a finger that dripped with blood against her lips. Her tongue darted out, a sliver of wet and pink, to taste it. The angel stiffened his shoulders against a shudder. Dean simply stared in shocked silence. The hunter couldn't quite process what happened, couldn't wrap his head around what Sam had done.

Conversationally — as if she hadn’t just had her hand inside his brother’s body — Aesis said to Dean, “It’s strange, isn’t it. How easily a human, even a fragile one, yields to temptation."

He opened his mouth, to threaten her, to yell, to dissolve into panic, but the words refused to come.

“I’ll make you a deal,” she continued. “I won’t kill the both of you. In fact, I’ll even let you have the next week to find a way to save dear Sammy. You will fail, of course, though I have to admit it will be amusing to watch you try.

“I’m not usually this forgiving of those who attempt to kill me. Normally, I would wear the both of you down until you concede to your weaknesses and say yes. But now I think I would love to watch you squirm with desperation. You have a week to save your brother. I would hurry if I were you."

Dean’s mouth finally reconnected with his brain. “I swear to God,” he snarled, “I will hunt you down. I will make you _beg_ for death."

Aesis gave him a smile devoid of anything resembling warmth as a coil of absolute darkness surged upwards from the ground. It wrapped around her body and drew in on itself, a shadowy cloak pierced only by the shine of her vivid eyes.

"Clock's ticking," she whispered.

The shadows melted away.

Aesis was gone.

The echoes of her voice faded, and the only sound left in the room was that of Sam’s deep, even breathing.

**Author's Note:**

> Come follow me on [tumblr](http://the-caitastrophe.tumblr.com); we can talk about silly, oblivious, made for each other boys.


End file.
